Page 54 of Peaches

Her eyes close tight, a smile lifting from the corners of her mouth. “Baby girl,” she whispers. “Try me.”

So I do. I tell her about Dad’s last letter again, and then about the next one from Céline. About how, against my best intentions, the soul-deep need to meet them and explore this part of me is bleeding out of my heart, and I know I wouldregretnot going to Charleston. And then I say the thing that scares me most.

“I was hoping you’d come with me.”

At this, I see her flinch. Evidence of a crack in her steely armor. She looks at me, mouth pressed tight, but says nothing.

“I . . . I just want you there with me when I face them. Not eventherethere, like you don’t have to stand next to me or anything, not if you don’t want to. But I was hoping you’d make the trip with me so that at least—at least I know I have you close.”

I watch as her eyes shine and soften, shoulders sagging beneath her wild hair. And I hope it means she understands this is for me, not for them. My heart thunders when her mouth finally parts to say something. “Would they even allow it?”

And I see her worry for what it is: that old wound, the fear of rejection from the very same man behind all of this new hope. “I’m prepared to ask. And if they say no, I’ll understand of course. I don’t want to cause issues for them, but . . . they say they want to get to know me. And I want to give it an honest chance, but that means knowingyoutoo.” More tears spill down my face, but I don’t wipe them away. “They might share my DNA, butyouare my family. You’re the sole reason I’m the woman I am today, Mom, and if they want to know me, they need to know you too.”

“Oh, honey,” Mom blurts, charging forward to wrap her arms tight around me. “OfcourseI’ll go with you.”

I hold her just as tightly, just as close. “If they aren’t okay with it, I won’t hold it against them. But Iwilllet it all go. I want to know them, Mom, I do. But I want it to be real, even if it’s a little messy. If they aren’t okay with that, then I don’t want it.”

“I’m so proud of you, Olivia,” she says, breathing in deep. “I’m so damn proud of the woman you are, and honored that I have a chance to learn from you too.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, soaking in the pure and honest love that only a mother could give. I don’t know why I ever doubted that we could handle this, but I’m so thankful I was brave enough to try.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

RHETT

It’s been a few years since I last braved the stairs of the main house, since I’ve let myself acknowledge how small the climb still makes me feel, like I’m a man trapped inside the constraints of a boy’s fear-addled body. With every creak of the steps beneath us, deep reminders of that old panic spike as I trail behind Kasey, hell-bent to knock down whatever walls I’d planned to hide behind for this meeting.

When I was a kid, my brothers and I did what we could to avoid the second floor of our home because of who was always up here, waiting for every opportunity to cut us down so he could feel big. The main house of the ranch, big as it is, holds a total of seven bedrooms: three downstairs and four upstairs. Brooks and Kasey—as the oldest—got to choose their rooms, so both of those lucky bastards had the luxury of sleeping downstairs. The rest of us, bound to our lesser privilege dictated by the order in which we were born, were forced to keep rooms upstairs, next to our parents.

I used to fight like hell for the spare room my mother kept on the first floor for guests, knowing if I could just move down there, I’d get some relief from the anxiety of being so close to my father while I slept. As a bunch of wild and reckless boys, we spent most of our daylight hours outside playing and learning the ways of the ranch. But in the hours between dinner and bedtime, when Dad did the heaviest of his drinking, the slightest disturbance to his peace often led to terrible consequences.

Once, when Sawyer was no more than eight or nine, he’d woken in the middle of the night from a bad nightmare and came running to my room. I tried like hell to keep him quiet as he told me all the ways his little mind was playing tricks on him in the dark, and eventually I helped shuffle him back to bed. It wasn’t until he was tucked in and half asleep again that I heard movement from my parents’ room on the other side of the wall—not the gentle movements of my mother, but the rough scraping and groaning of my father.

Quickly beelining to my room on silent feet, I thought I could make it back inside and avoid any issues. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough, and the firm hand that shoved me into the wall was cruel and unrelenting. I’m not sure if it was nights like those that created the specific way my father sought to terrorize me, or if that came later, after I started to get into more trouble in school. But I always had a strong suspicion that he reveled in those opportunities to get me alone so he could blow off a little steam, and I don’t think anyone else in my family knew or understood how lonely it was. Brooks and Kasey had each other, and Sawyer and Wells were almost just as close. I was the odd man out, the one with a darker mind full of secrets and pain. My brothers had their asses handed to them too, no doubt about it. But the way Dad treated me . . . it was something different. Something more rotten and cold.

When I finally got old enough to inherit a cabin, I left that childhood bedroom of mine and never once looked back at it. When Brooks eventually had the boys, Mom swapped out my old furniture for bunk beds and toys, and the room became theirs to use for sleepovers with her on nights Brooks and Melody got away for themselves. I used to worry about them being up there, but Dad’s become a recluse in the last decade and hardly comes out of his room for anything. Plus, even if he still might holler and grumble about things he doesn’t like, the wheelchair he’s in stops him from using that brute power the way he once did.

I remember how thankful I’d been when he had that rodeo accident. How terrible it felt to look at my mother’s face back then, twisted with so much despair for her husband, and still feel suchrelief.

My chest tightens as Kasey reaches the top of the staircase, turning left toward the one place I promised myself I would never willingly go. The sound of a TV bleeds through the door, the strongest proof of my father’s existence that I’ve seen in months. Kasey raps his knuckles against the door three times, and for a moment that seems to stretch, nothing happens. I hold my breath and silently pray that he’s not in there, even though we both know he is.

My heart sinks when the sound of the TV disappears and a rough “Come in” sounds from somewhere far behind the door.

Kasey pushes it open and there he is: Bud Bennett.

For a man somewhere in his mid-fifties, he looks at least a decade older. His once-dark hair, as dark as mine, is full of so much silver it’s shocking. He’s nestled in a heavily cushioned recliner, the fabric stretched around the armrests threadbare and shredding. A folded wheelchair is perched against the wall closest to him—hardly used these days other than to get himself to the bathroom and back. I think it’s been months since Dad’s actually left this room.

I was thirteen when he competed in his last rodeo, the one that left his body broken and shattered. Kasey had just started competing in a few youth circuits in East Texas, and I guess Dad thought he could dust off his old rodeo chaps and take a wild bronc for a spin. Back in his prime, Dad and his brothers would ride anything just to prove they could. And on that sweltering summer day in June, he’d had more than enough whiskey in his coffee to feel confident with his draw. To feel like he was capable enough of straddling the wide shoulders of the meanest horse at the event that day.

His alcoholism only got worse after the accident, and life at home was difficult for us all—especially Mom. But he’s been sober almost five years, his longest stretch yet. It does little to make up for all the years his drinking made life hell—especially since he still doesn’t do anything to help withanythingaround the ranch—but I guess life’s given him plenty of pain to deal with.

I can’t tear my eyes away from him now. For all of my avoiding, he still yields such power over me. I want him to see me for the man I am, for the man he forced me to become. I want him to see that he couldn’t break me like life broke him. And with the way he glares back at me, a rush of sensation up my spine says he just might fucking know it.

Kasey’s the one to finally break the silence. “Dad,” he says in a low voice, bringing his hands to his hips as he looks around the room. It’s relatively clean thanks to Mom, but even the small open window doesn’t settle the musty weight of the air around us. “How are you?”

My father’s eyes finally break from mine as he turns his focus to my brother. I can’t help the exhale that pours out of my nostrils in relief. “Dandy, son,” he answers with a smart-ass tilt of his lips. Like he’s in on some joke that we’re on the outside of. “It’s a beautiful day to be alive. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of you two finding a reason to visit me today?”

I roll my eyes. Always with the fucking games.

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